


His Crowning Glory

by Anne-Li (Anneli)



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 02:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10912455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneli/pseuds/Anne-Li
Summary: For the imzy challenge of Dorian's hair - but posted for Klaus's birthday 2017.





	His Crowning Glory

He ran the fingertips of both his hands lazily through the hair, starting in the very back at the nape, pressing down firmly and stroking his fingers, reverently, up to the top of the scalp. Then he started again from the bottom, a bit more to the sides, slowly working his way around, feeling the skin warm under the steady pressure. The sensation of waves of hair breaking over his hands was almost hypnotic – and highly enjoyable.

He had never either seen or felt a more magnificent head of hair.

A drop of the finest, most expensive hair oil – a world-wide difference from that cheap stuff used too often by common men - helped contained the natural flow of curls and pulled them tighter. Of course, when wet the curls would be even tighter, but depending on how it was brushed and oiled the hair would either curl around his neck, framing his face like a lion's mane and warming him in the winter - or cascade over his shoulders like a mantle and allow him to toss the strands elegantly when the situation demanded such a gesture. The curls were completely natural, of course, no curling iron for him! Only the forelock was each morning teased into careful heart shape, both for aesthetic reasons and to make sure the hair did not obscure those stunning eyes for his admirers. Besides, nothing was more annoying than when you tried to open a safe than having to stop time and again to brush your hair back.

His sisters had been terribly jealous of his hair, of course. Not that they had particularly bad hair themselves, theirs just hadn't been so incredibly lush and fast growing as his. Their bitter envy had several times prompted Mother to cut his short! Another reason for him to dislike her, sadly. He hadn't worn his hair short since the day Father died – albeit he had, once or twice, especially in the heat of the Sahara desert, been somewhat tempted to get rid of it all … He had tried to iron it flat exactly once – that had made him look like a wet cat … Far better to just tie it back elegantly when the need arose. Or even a wig, on occasion, even if that, granted, could get awfully warm. The black one, in Cologne, had been most interesting.

He idly held up a strand to the light, admiring how the different angles and lines made the fine strands shimmer in hues from pale flaxen over gold to a hint of the fairest red. In winter – or if he was out in a warm sun too much – the colour would seem paler, with almost white highlights; while summer brought by the richer, more saturated hues. Once in a while, on more special occasions, he would spray a bit of hair mist on it, to put a bit of glitter to the strands to be caught in the strobes or the cameras. One day, maybe, the rich strands would be matted by silver. How would that look, he pondered. Of course, if such a change proved too distracting, there were remedies to be found.

Each strand of hair was carefully maintained – a split end would be dealt with promptly. Little to no shampoo – only occasionally, to keep properly clean – but regular conditioner to make sure that the mass could be brushed without developing the most awful tangles.

His crowning glory – well, an actual crown would perch rather nicely upon it, he would admit - but his hair was a crown unto itself, worthy of any king gloriously portrayed on an old masterpiece. If he ever took scissors to it no one would recognize him – something which might also come in handy, one day.

A shake of his shoulders and the hair would tumble forth to brush sensually against a lover's skin as he kissed his way down the man's chest, creating a sensory web that he had heard described as the sublime sort of tickling caress. More than one lover had wanted to put the strands to, well, a more sordid use, but there he drew a most firm line – no form of stickiness was ever welcome in his hair. The one time he got nail polish in it was enough forever, thank you. But he loved to feel the curls pressed firmly against his cheek as a man leaned close to him – or maybe pushed aside, reverently, to get to the sensitive skin of his throat beneath his ear.

On rare occasions he would grant a suitor the gift of a lock bound with a strand of red velvet.  He had heard that the memories had become revered possessions, which pleased him.

Another reason why his hair was not just an eye catching decoration was how easily it concealed things beneath the wild (though carefully arranged!) bounty. Fine strands of silky rope – deceptively fine, like a garrotte, able to hold astonishing weights if necessary. Always practical to have on hand. Other things good to have in his line of business – behind his right ear hung an ornamental lock pick and behind his left an elegant screwdriver head that would fit exactly into the decorative patterns of one of his rings – or into the lock pick itself, in a pinch. Well secured to small braids at the far back of his head hung a black pearl and a small blue diamond. His wandering fingers slid carefully over the thin razor blade at the very top of his head, protected by a solid plastic seal. That time in Newcastle the tiny blade had come in quite handy.

Once in the Philippines he had smuggled a priceless locket out of a palace by hiding the treasure in his hair and wearing only a cloth so transparent that the guards had no reason at all to search him (not that they hadn't wanted to anyway).

Dorian paused in his ministrations, sighing happily. He did so love his hair.


End file.
